


Scathing

by Sophie_skates_reads



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Aged-Up Otabek Altin, Aged-Up Yuri Plisetsky, Alpha Otabek Altin, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Eventual Otabek Altin/Yuri Plisetsky, Hopeful Ending, Long-Haired Yuri Plisetsky, M/M, Omega Verse, Omega Yuri Plisetsky, Otabek Altin does NOT have a Small Dick!!, POV Otabek Altin, Royalty, YOI Omegaverse Week, Yuri Plisetsky Is A Little Shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-05
Updated: 2020-08-05
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:22:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25732045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sophie_skates_reads/pseuds/Sophie_skates_reads
Summary: Otabek Altin, fourth in line for the throne of Almatia, ambassador of said kingdom, has heard incredible things about the ambassador of San Piter, the nation he is about to take a post in. The alpha of the Plisetsky house (the ruling family of San Piter) is supposed to be equipped with striking intelligence, sharp wit, and scathing insults for all who deserve them, and Otabek is equal parts apprehensive and excited to meet this man.Upon arriving in San Piter, though, he finds the alpha (who is apparently a woman) to be friendly and amiable, vivacious in every facet of the word. Otabek is surprised, though, when he meets a breathtakingly beautiful omega male, a Plisetsky who insults Otabek on sight, refuses to tell him his name, and accuses him of having a small dick. And all with the utmost politeness.As the visit progresses, Otabek finds himself more and more drawn to and intrigued by this omega who defies all social stereotypes and does so while maintaining the politest, most unwavering disdain for Otabek he has ever encountered. Who could this mysterious omega be, and how has Otabek never heard of him?~~~Or: My contribution to YOI Omegaverse week's prompt for day two, royalty and scent.
Relationships: Otabek Altin & Yuri Plisetsky, Otabek Altin/Yuri Plisetsky
Comments: 34
Kudos: 109
Collections: YOI Omegaverse Week





	Scathing

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so... this is essentially Downton Abbey just with YOI characters. Fun.  
> This was not supposed to be as long as it ended up. I wanted it to be like 2K words and instead, it grew to be over 7.5K... oh well.  
> This was so much fun to write -- I was legitimately cackling during it -- so I hope you enjoy it!

Otabek was tired: absolutely worn out; he had been traveling all day and really just wanted to be able to blow off his hosts, collapse, and go to sleep the second he got to the Plisetsky Manor. As the newly-appointed ambassador of Almatia in San Piter, he was able to do absolutely none of those things, and instead had to attend a party he did not want to go to with a smile on his face. As much as he was grateful for the position, Otabek didn’t want his job right now. Oh well, though; he was 25 years old and it was time for him to put on his adult mask and pretend to be better than he actually was. Oh, the life of a prince.

As the youngest son of the Altin family, rulers of Almatia, Otabek had two brothers and a sister in line for the throne before him, and was therefore shunted to diplomatic work, hence his position as foreign ambassador in San Piter. Otabek didn’t mind it; he was proud of his job and enjoyed the work, but he had never quite gotten used to the hours of travel between the two nations. At least this time, though, he’d be staying in San Piter for the foreseeable future, so he wouldn’t have to deal with the return journey.

He slowed his horse as the manor gates came into view, riding up to them and waiting as they opened the gates before circling back to accompany the carriage with his sister and her husband inside it. This visit to San Piter went beyond the call of work, though it was true that first and foremost this trip was to situate Otabek with his new living quarters in San Piter, and there was a group of friends and allies from neighboring nations staying at the Manor for a social visit. Personally, Otabek was not excited to rub elbows with the rich and snobby elite but had accepted his fate and only wished that he was acquainted with everyone who would be there. As it was, Otabek was on friendly terms with the ambassador from Candia, Jean-Jacques, the one from Amerit, Leo, and several others, but there were a number of guests he had only ever heard of.

The Crispino twins, from Venici, Christophe Giacometti from Swissan, and, of course, the Katsuki-Nikiforov duo, a married couple, Katsuki an ambassador from Japai and Nikiforov a cousin of the Plisetsky family, heir to and ambassador of Moscovita. And then, the most infamous of all who he had never met, the San Piter ambassador who worked with them all, heir to the throne and firstborn Plisetsky child. Otabek had been told that the alpha these titles belonged to was brilliant, equipped with striking intelligence, sharp wit, and scathing remarks for all that deserved them. Otabek was a bit apprehensive about meeting them but was nonetheless intrigued-- this alpha sounded like none he’d ever come across, more like his sister, Amina, whose words could strike one down more efficiently than the best sword.

With that in mind, Otabek accompanied the carriage up the winding, gravel drive to stop before the family and staff, assembled and waiting for the Altin party, as was custom for visiting guests.

“Prince and Ambassador Altin!” Called Nikolai Plisetsky, current king and ruler of San Piter, “Such a pleasure for you and your family to join us in this humble soiree.”

Otabek forced a small smile as he dismounted, “Please, call me Otabek, I have no need for formalities,” Otabek moved forward to shake his hand, “and the pleasure is all our own: we thank you for the invitation.”

“Of course, of course,” said Nikolai, waving this away, “Princess Amina, you do look well, and Prince Consort Abdulin, as do you.” Nikolai turned his attention to Amina, emerging from the carriage, and Miras, her husband of five years, helping her. 

As pleasantries were exchanged, Otabek moved down the line of waiting people. He nodded and smiled reservedly at the staff -- that elicited some eye-widenings: staff was almost always ignored -- and exchanged a few words with each of the waiting guests, making introductions, remembering old friends, and, at last, he reached the royal family.

“Your highness,” Otabek said, bowing and kissing the hand of a pretty, redheaded alpha. “I don’t believe I have had the pleasure of making your acquaintance. I am Prince Otabek Altin, ambassador of Almatia, and this is my sister and brother and law,” he said, nodding to where Amina and Miras were further down the line than himself.

“I’ve heard wonderful things about you,” the redhead said, smiling, “My name is Mila Babicheva of the house of Plisetsky, it is so good to meet you, and, I’m sure, your family.” Ah, Otabek thought, so this was the alpha people had spoken of. Miss Babicheva seemed intelligent, though Otabek couldn’t really know from the perfunctory greetings, and she spoke with a sense of self-assurance. 

While it was rare that children of the same house went by different last names, Otabek knew that Nikolai Plisetsky was grandfather to two grandchildren, a boy, and a girl, and figured that Mila must have taken her deceased father’s first name as her last, instead of middle. The naming system of San Piter and Moscovita confused Otabek somewhat, so he didn’t try to puzzle it out further, but assumed that something akin to the previous explanation would be correct, since Mila must have been the daughter of Nikolai Plisetsky’s son. He’d thought the son was called Sergei, but, again, he didn’t quite know.  
Otabek gave one last, reserved smile to Mila, before moving again down the line. There were only two people left, exempting the king, and after stumbling through an introduction with a very severe, quite terrifying woman, Otabek breathed a mental sigh of relief on approaching the last family member.

Even before Otabek could open his mouth, the person’s scent hit him in the face. It must have been obscured by the others before, and the family must have washed with blockers -- it was only proper, after all -- but as Otabek came to stand before a slim, blond, he _had_ to be an omega, Otabek was lost for words, inhaling that rich, ripe, ever so alluring scent.

The man raised an eyebrow at Otabek, and his brilliant green eyes were piercing as he looked Otabek up and down, obviously sizing him up. As Otabek opened his mouth once more, hoping to get over the block from his brain to his mouth caused by the omega’s scent, he was interrupted.

“Prince Otabek Altin, ambassador of Almatia, I presume?” The blond’s voice was soft but firm, carrying to be clearly audible.

“I am,” Otabek at last managed to recover himself. “You are quite keen-- I don’t believe we’ve met before and you already know who I am.”

The blond’s expression stayed politely interested, but his eyes sparkled and he tilted his head up just slightly as he said. “I wouldn’t yet declare me clairvoyant, Mr. Altin. My grandfather addressed you not five minutes ago, or have you so fleeting a memory?”

Otabek very nearly gaped but recovered himself. “Ah, excuse my mistake, the encounter slipped clean from my mind.” Otabek smiled in a way he knew made his admirers swoon, hoping to charm this man.

It seemed, to Otabek’s disappointment, to have the opposite effect. “Of course, though might I suggest that you may find it prudent to deem memories of men as important as the king of San Piter worthy of recollection, in the future?” The blond’s smile was sharp, and Otabek was amazed. An omega, speaking so forwardly to someone he barely knew? Astounding. 

Otabek should have been insulted, infuriated, but instead, he just felt humbled, respect blooming in his chest for this tiny, fae-like man who, with his tongue alone, had brought Otabek to his knees-- entirely at his mercy. Impressive.

Otabek opened his mouth to reply, hoping to smooth over his immense and coerced faux-pas but was interrupted by the blond again.

“If you would, it would be appreciated if you moved along,” the blond began, propriety personified. Otabek had a feeling that was about to change, though. “You have been idle here for several minutes, and quite a queue has accumulated if you have deigned to notice.” he gestured at Amina and Miras who had appeared beside Otabek in the line, and were now watching the exchange, “I’m afraid it isn’t polite to linger at my side any longer when introductions have already been made.” And he dismissed him, turning and addressing Amina, who looked as though she was struggling not to laugh at Otabek’s verbal horsewhipping. 

“Excuse me,” Otabek said, gaining the blond’s attention again in the form of a polite, but obviously impatient and exasperated, look, “but I have yet to know your name.”

His eyes sparkled again. “And isn’t that the fun of it all. Good day, Mr. Altin.” And he again turned to Amina, who was now grinning broadly, and began to speak with her.

“It’s Otabek,” Otabek mumbled as he was all but pushed out of the way by the blond as his sister took his place in the line.

Who _was_ this guy?

***

Otabek was shown to his rooms, Amina and Miras occupying the set adjacent to his, and had just unlatched one of his three suitcases -- he disliked this material-dependency deeply, but it was the way of the age -- to begin to unpack when there was a knock on the door. Confused, Otabek hastened to unlock the door-- had Mila forgotten to tell him something? She had shown them to their rooms, though she said that for the rest of their stay she would be assisting the Crispinos, and that the second Plisetsky grandchild would be helping them in her place.

Instead of Mila’s auburn curls, though, he found his sister’s raven locks waiting outside his door, and Amina pushed her way in before Otabek even had a chance to move.

“Oh, my god,” she began, smiling widely enough Otabek thought her face would bruise.

Otabek rolled his eyes, “Is this about the Plisetsky male?”

Amina nodded, “The way he spoke to you! Oh, he put you in your place-- it was brilliant to watch.”

Otabek tsked, “It wasn’t enjoyable to be on the receiving end of,” he said, “he spoke faster than I could comprehend, and next I knew he’s said I’ve said things I never did!”

Amina cackled, “I know-- they said he was clever but I had no idea. To watch it in action was quite impressive, to be honest. I like to think of myself as sharp-tongued but he was something else.”

Otabek hadn’t heard any talk of the Plisetsky youth, but shrugged it off as gossip he tuned out.

“You are sharp-tongued,” Otabek said, having been the recipient of _that_ far too many times as well. “But Plisetsky has acid on his lips-- it’s unfair to compare.”

Amina laughed, “You don’t seem too happy about your less-than-royal treatment. I think it’s nice for a change: you always have people falling all over you-- it’ll do you good to get a dose of humility for once.”

“I have more doses than are strictly necessary as it is, with you around,” Otabek replied dryly before continuing, “but he attacked without cause-- I was only introducing myself. I fail to grasp how from that I would warrant his wrath.”

Amina shrugged, “He seems to judge on first impressions of people. His intuition seems quite accurate as well-- he handed Jean-Jacques his head on a silver platter in the courtyard when we walked past, and then turned around and was perfectly friendly to Leo.”

Otabek thought about this. Did he make that bad of a first impression?

He knew he didn’t always seem particularly friendly or approachable, but did he broadcast Jean-Jacques level pompousness? He certainly hadn’t thought so.

“Anyway,” Amina said, shaking Otabek from his internal reflection, “I actually came over here to warn you about dinner tonight: mocking you about Plisetsky, fun as it was, isn’t the rationale behind my intrusion into your chambers.”

“Alright?” Otabek asked, “What is it?”

“Mila told Miras and me about the proposed seating plan for dinner tonight. You’re next to your best friend.”

Otabek quirked an eyebrow, “Leo or the blond?” 

“Plisetsky, obviously,” Amina rolled her eyes as though this were the most obvious thing in the world. “And why do you never refer to him by his first name?”

“He told _you_ his first name?” Otabek asked, surprised, and feeling slighted.

“He didn’t tell _you?”_ Amina burst into a fit of laughter as Otabek shook his head. “Well, in that case, I won’t spoil the fun. I’ll see you at dinner!”

“No-- Amina!” Otabek called, but she was already sweeping out the door, giggling to herself as she went.

***

After a half-hour nap that seemed, more than anything, to have whetted his appetite for sleep rather than lessened it, and getting ready after refusing a valet (he was 25, for the love of God, he could dress himself! Though, as he pondered it, he supposed that that wasn’t really the point), Otabek made his way down to the dining room whose place in the manor he knew from experience, just as the gong sounded for dinner.

Otabek met several of the other guests in the drawing-room, congregating to wait until they were ushered into the dining room, and smiled genuinely upon seeing Leo.

“Leo,” he called as he approached him, “it’s been too long! I’ve heard stories about your adventures in the forests of Amerit-- what does Guang Hong have to say about that? I remember he was never keen on your little expeditions.”

Leo laughed a light, rambunctious snigger. “Otabek, how has it been a year since we last met?” Otabek shook his head, joining Leo by the fire, “Your ‘stories’ are quite true! I have been exploring a beautiful wonderland of foliage-- if I had it my way I’d never go back to society.”

“I can sympathize entirely,” Otabek said, quieting a bit, “the cocktail parties are often beyond me.”

“The jackets and cummerbunds?” Leo laughed, shaking his head. “That was for our fathers, our fathers’ fathers, not for us. We shall explore and be wild!”

Otabek’s laugh was echoed by another, and he turned to see Mila Babicheva approaching them, Sara Crispino and another young woman following.

“You mustn’t let my grandfather catch you saying that,” Mila said, but the twinkle in her eye made it obvious that the whole thing was a joke, really. “He might just think that he’ll be able to hire you to trek through the mountain ranges of San Piter, and somehow I doubt that it’s anything so pleasant as a warm, tropical forest.”

Otabek shook his head ruefully, internally groaning: he’d just wanted to catch up with his friend, why did everything have to turn into possibly-deadly social chattering? 

“I’m afraid I daren’t,” Otabek said, “I’m quite enjoying my position as ambassador at the moment, I’d hate to do anything that may jeopardize it-- become an adventurer or not.” All three women laughed and Mila winced exaggeratedly.

“Excuse me, I’m so sorry,” she said, smacking herself comically on the forehead, careful not to disturb her intricate updo. “I’ve forgotten to introduce you! Leo, I believe you know both of these lovely ladies,” a nod, “and Otabek, you’ve heard of Sara Crispino, ambassador of Venici,” he offered her a smile, “but I don’t think you know Miss Ekaterina Ivanova? She’s a lady here in San Piter and quite a catch!”

“Oh, Mila, you embarrass me!” The woman who Otabek hadn’t known hit Mila on the arm playfully, though no embarrassment showed on her features. “She’s much too kind,” she said, turning to Otabek, and oh no, she was one of _those_ types of people. “I’m not much in the way of who’s who, really. I’m not even convinced that I belong here, with the heights of society!”

“Oh hush, you!” Mila continued their banter, “Ekaterina is the only daughter of Alexander Ivanov-- the great merchant? I’m sure you’ve heard of him.”

“I have,” Otabek said, letting himself be led away to occupy a chair next to Leo’s as the girls spread themselves elegantly on the plush, upholstered sofa. “Your father is an impressive man, you’ve quite a legacy to live up to, though I’m sure you’ll manage.”

Ekaterina giggled and Otabek barely repressed a wince. He _hated_ this kind of complimentary, knife’s-edge mingling. 

“And Otabek here is the youngest son of the Altin line, ambassador of Almatia, which is to the East of here, you know.”

“I do,” and she did, going by the hungry look gleaming in Ekaterina’s eye, and she was about to speak again when the door of the drawing-room opened and Otabek’s attention snapped to the figure walking elegantly through the doorway.

The male Plisetsky, whose name Otabek _still_ didn’t know, swept gracefully into the drawing-room, his grandfather preceding him out of custom, but every eye on him. The blond hair Otabek was growing steadily more fond of was at odds with the other tight, up-done hairstyles: there was a luscious, flowing blond braid cascading down the omega’s right shoulder, loose curls woven into the looser braid and a strand of something shiny twisted in with it all. The effect was quite astounding, and Otabek struggled to take in the rest of the blond’s ensemble for a moment. When Otabek did manage to rip his gaze away, though, he found it equally stuck on his clothing.

The omega who had thus far defied all societal expectations Otabek had of him, now came in bedecked in a glimmering evening gown, wrapping around his body and fluttering at his ankles as he moved. The mint green of the fabric echoed his eye color, and Otabek was a man possessed. The blond’s scent, of course, also played its substantial part in leaving Otabek light-headed, and as the blond glanced around the room, it was made plain that he _knew_ his effect on the unmated alphas, and knew exactly how to handle the power he wielded. 

Vaguely, Otabek realized that someone was speaking to him, and with a great effort, Otabek turned away from the fae gracing the room with his presence and rejoined the conversation.  
“-- and the furs were a big job to handle, especially on my own, but I-- Otabek, are you listening to me?”

Otabek blinked, and Ekaterina’s vaguely annoyed face came into view. “Sorry?” He said, “I’m afraid I missed that.”

Ekaterina huffed and was about to launch back into a tirade of what Otabek was sure would be her _humble_ version of her greatest victories and attributes, when she was cut off.

“Don’t be embarrassed, he has that effect on many, though to try to pursue it isn’t wise.” Otabek looked up and realized that Nikolai Plisetsky was standing at his shoulder, grinning knowingly at him and glancing from Otabek to his own kin and back.

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean, your highness.” Otabek said, unprepared for finding himself knee-deep in a conspiratorial conversation about Otabek’s love life with the king of San Piter.

Nikolai just chuckled, “It might be better for you if you didn’t, but I find that that is very rarely, if ever, the case.” Nikolai shot a fondly exasperated look at his grandson, who was conversing with Victor Nikiforov of Moscovita and Yuuri Katsuki of Japai, Christophe Giacometti of Swissan in tow. “My grandson is beautiful, Mr. Altin, talented, and smarter than even I can properly give him credit for. He is, by all means, a catch, and has suitors lined up for miles. He is also,” and pride twinkled in the old man’s eye, “a firecracker, and a viper personified if there ever was one.”

“I’d say more of a tiger…” Otabek murmured before he could stop himself, gazing with Nikolai at the belle of the drawing-room. As Otabek realized what he’d said, he opened his mouth to apologize, but Nikolai, far from looking offended, directed a searching look at Otabek, and scanned him in the same way his grandson had.

“Yes,” Nikolai murmured thoughtfully, “Yuri has often made that correction.” At Otabek’s look of confusion, Nikolai let out a booming laugh. “He’s not told you his name yet?” He asked and Otabek shook his head, though he was interrupted before he could give verbal assent. Nikolai watched his grandson warmly, “He is a spitfire, that one,” and turning to Otabek, that same appraising look in his eye, “I wonder whether you’ll be burned.” And walked off.

“I wish I knew,” Otabek murmured, unsure what to make of the conversation or his partner in it, but he was brought back to reality by a huff and Ekaterina got up, very pointedly flouncing across the room to join _Yuri’s_ conversation with a muttered, 

“--give _him_ the time of day, give _me_ the time of day!”

As Ekaterina arrived, though, Yuri paid her no mind, finishing his sentence before turning to glance over Ekaterina. Apparently landing on the same _golddigger_ verdict Otabek had, Yuri said several words to Ekaterina before promptly turning his back on her and continuing his conversation. 

Behind him, Ekaterina flushed red at the blatant rejection, and stormed off to the other side of the room, striking up a conversation with Michele Crispino and Jean-Jacques Leroy, apparently determined to get some appreciation out of this dinner party.

Trying, and likely failing, to contain his amusement, Otabek paid half an ear to the conversation around him and continued staring unreservedly at Yuri’s back. Across the room, a tiny smirk rested on Yuri’s features.

***

As dinner progressed, Otabek found himself gaining the impression that Yuri was rather like a cat. He seemed to privately glory in adoration (unsurprisingly, anyone who’d spent thirty seconds with him could see that it must be flung at him from all sides) and get great joy in snubbing those who were responsible for adoring him, giving them short, cutting replies to any conversation topic they valiantly struck up, and ignoring them beautifully the rest of the time. Otabek’s treatment was no different.

“Have you any opinions on the omega suffrage movement in Amerit?” Otabek inquired, hoping to get Yuri talking about what he just _knew_ he would be passionate about. “I’m glad to see it gaining in strength; it is such an important cause.”

Yuri, currently twisting what tasted like grilled spaghetti squash around the tines of his fork, looked up. Otabek did a mental dance of victory. 

“The omega suffrage movement,” Yuri said slowly, eyes sparkling in the way Otabek had already grown to associate with danger. Shit. “Ah yes, I’m afraid I’m not much of an authority on the subject: here in San Piter, everyone _already_ has basic human rights.” And he dropped his gaze, and went back to eating. Otabek fought the insane urge to laugh: why was he surprised? 

***

Another surprise came when dinner was declared finished and the company split for the evening. It was the custom for male (and very occasionally female) alphas to retire to talk politics in the library while the omegas (non-gender-specific) returned to the drawing-room to gossip or discuss the topics that went straight over Otabek’s head into a bird’s nest. So, when Yuri stood beside Otabek and preceded him in the direction of the library, accompanied by the male alphas, Otabek was stunned. 

Now, Otabek thought himself a progressive man: he was all for omega rights and, like Yuri, found it absurd that omegas had to fight so hard and tirelessly to achieve basic human rights. Maybe it was his time spent immersed in the ridiculous confines of propriety in high society, but Otabek had _never_ seen an omega accompany the alphas to the library before, and he was absolutely flabbergasted when everyone treated this as normal.

Apparently he stared at Yuri as they reached the library, and he _must_ have worn some expression of incredulity for, after several minutes of talk in which Otabek was silent and inattentive and his gaze remained firmly fixed on Yuri, Yuri at last turned and met it.

“Excuse me for saying so,” Yuri said “but your gawping is quite impolite. As I’m sure you have noticed, San Piter is far more advanced than the nations surrounding it. Here, sexism is nonexistent, and the term ‘omega’ signifies nothing more than the biological ability to bear children. It is positively transparent that such civilized customs are foreign to you and I advise you to better your poker face if you wish to do well here, especially as among none of our people sexism, and so blatantly practiced, is tolerated.” 

Otabek opened his mouth to defend himself. He wasn’t sexist-- he was surprised! He had never seen anything like this before and he needed a bit of time to adjust-- that wasn’t so unusual! Before he could speak, though, he was interrupted, Yuri cutting across him as smoothly as one cut into warmed butter.

“In any case, I regret to tell you that your time here may run out if you don’t acquaint yourself with the practice of the rights you claim to support.” Yuri stood in one smooth motion, and, addressing the room, “I believe I shall retire for the night, reeducating the ignorant wears on me so. Goodnight, Grandfather.” And he swept from the room, his heels clacking on the polished marble floors.

Otabek stared after him, dumbstruck, as the room erupted into guffaws around him.

***

When Otabek woke the following morning, after being thoroughly assured that the alphas who had borne witness to Yuri’s verbal slaughter-fest knew that he was _not_ sexist, and merely surprised, it was with determination in his heart. All exhaustion from the journey gone, Otabek practically leaped from bed, several choice replies to Yuri’s scathing remarks prancing around his head, and ready to set Yuri straight. A plan that was foiled within ten minutes of arriving in the drawing-room before breakfast.

Otabek was in the middle of recounting to Amina what had happened the night before, the two alone besides Miras in the drawing-room, and was just sighing, “--he sends such mixed signals, I just can’t figure him out. He dresses like the typical omega but he behaves like anything but. I don’t understand: if he’s so opposed to being defined by his sex, why does he dress in a way that is so inherently… omega, and therefore equates him with it?” when his luck kicked in.

“Because I choose to.” 

And of _course,_ Yuri was behind him. Otabek froze, not having heard the drawing-room door open, and readied his retorts from that morning. 

“Here in San Piter,” Yuri said, “we are not bound by typical gender roles and stereotypes, and everyone has the right to dress and act as they please. I prefer more typically feminine clothing while my cousin-in-law, an omega like myself, prefers men’s. If you’re going to hang yourself up and out to dry on one particular aspect of life here, and especially life with _me,_ I think it unwise that you take clothing as your chosen stance. 

“As you will be living in the manor as ambassador of Almatia for the foreseeable future, you may not want to dig your heels in on such trivial, shallow concepts.” And Yuri stepped past him, turning to glance over his shoulder at him as he walked away, “And you might want to consider the concept that the clothing does little but provide the man with modesty. To attach such value to a concept frail as that is downright ludicrous.”

Otabek opened his mouth but Yuri was already disappearing through the second set of drawing-room doors, heels similarly clicking against the floor. Otabek didn’t even look at Amina. “Shut up.”

A choked giggle escaped the palm trying to stifle it anyway.

***

It was day three and Otabek was really getting sick of this. Every time he remotely engaged Yuri in conversation, on any subject, he ended up with his head handed to him, more often than not surrounded by company trying not to laugh. Otabek was really falling for this man.

Determined to finally say his side of their various arguments, Otabek resolved to ask Yuri to accompany him on whatever activity the party would embark upon today. Yesterday it had been a luncheon and the day before, the simple arrival of most of the guests at the Manor, so Otabek felt sure that whatever they’d be doing today would give him a chance to speak to Yuri, preferably in private.

“Today’s activity is shooting, we’re going out on a hunt, apparently.” Amina told him that morning, barging into Otabek’s bedroom with her token lack of appreciation for privacy.

“What?” Otabek mumbled, a comb in his hand from where he was standing in front of a mirror, attempting to tame the bird’s nest he called hair. “Hunting? Are you sure?”

“Yup,” Amina said, plopping down onto Otabek’s disheveled bed. “And before you groan and ask if you can get out of it, you can’t. Nikolai himself is going: it would be the epitome of rudeness to decline when the _king_ is attending.”

Otabek sighed, “I guess I can’t really argue with that,” he murmured, “I just hate the whole, stupid practice. Who kills things for fun? It’s an exercise in insanity.”

“They say it’s to keep the swallow population manageable,” Amina said, “but I agree. It just seems needlessly cruel to me.”

“Yes,” Otabek said and sighed, “but one day shouldn’t be too bad.” 

***

The party was gathered on the gravel drive, chattering amongst themselves as the carriages were readied to take them down to the fields where they would find their poor prey, and, though it was only five minutes until the hunt began, Otabek couldn’t see Yuri anywhere. 

Glancing around, Otabek was about to admit defeat when the doors of the Manor opened and Yuri and his grandfather walked out onto the drive, joining the party. 

“Hello,” Otabek said to Yuri, who merely looked at him, unimpressed. Deciding it would likely be best to get straight to the point, Otabek continued on, rather bluntly, “would you accompany me while shooting?” Otabek asked, “I believe I’ve given you a rather misimpression of myself and I would like to clear up any confusion regarding several matters.”

Yuri looked at him a moment before saying, “No, I will not accompany you.” Otabek was about to reply (he had prepared for the eventuality) when Yuri continued, “I abhor shooting and all those who call it a sport. It is a cruel, unnecessary act and the fact that people, that my own family practices it for _entertainment_ is sickening to myself and anyone who deems wildlife undeserving of such torment. Innocent creatures who have done nothing to harm us as a collective people are being slaughtered in the name of _sport._ It is unjust and I refuse any part in it.”

Otabek couldn’t help himself: he smiled. 

“Great minds do think alike.” And this time _he_ turned and walked away, “I’ll see you at dinner, Yuri.”

Yuri stared after him a moment before spinning and marching into the Manor. Oh, it was _on_

***

As the day grew later, Otabek’s initial cat-impression of Yuri cemented itself further and further in his mind until Otabek could only think of Yuri as either a tiger or a petulant kitten, nothing in between. Otabek liked him all the more for it.

It was the evening following the party-minus-Yuri’s excursion in the form of shooting, and Otabek sat next to Amina on the sofa in the drawing-room as Miras conversed with Christophe by the fireplace.

“I finally got the last word!” Otabek squealed in a very manly fashion, though he kept his voice low enough that it was unlikely they’d be overheard. “He just stood there and looked at me, it might’ve been the proudest moment of my life.”

Amina laughed, shaking her head in exasperated endearment. “You’ve really fallen for him, haven’t you, Beka? I haven’t seen you act this way since _Ake_ gave you your first horse, and this is far grander than your reaction to Sylvia was.”

Otabek rolled his eyes at the memory. Sylvia had been a damn good stallion and he’d still be riding him today if he hadn’t gotten sick. The name Sylvia actually came from what Otabek had _wanted_ Amina to be named, and, on being disappointed, used the first chance he got to show his parents that Sylvia was a better name than Amina. He had been eight at the time.

“Yeah yeah,” Otabek brushed the horse’s mention aside, “but the point is I finally _won._ I rendered him speechless-- I’m definitely making progress.”

“Progress?” And there was Yuri’s usual vanishing and reappearing act right behind him, lovely. “From where did you acquire that notion, good Sir Knight?”

Otabek blinked, turning to face Yuri. “Knight? I am not nor ever have been a knight, whatever gives you that impression?”

“Really?” Yuri looked surprised, eyes wide and mouth falling open into a perfect ‘O’. “Please excuse my mistake,” he continued, the epitome of propriety but for the dangerous sparkling in his eyes “but you carry yourself with the air of someone accustomed to being on horseback, and its subsequent effects on one’s body.” 

Otabek gawped momentarily, processing what had been said. Had Yuri just called his dick small? 

Someone called and Yuri turned, before giving Otabek one last fleeting glance. “Do excuse me, _Beka.”_ Otabek blinked, stunned, as Yuri swept away from him, skirt swishing behind him. The little shit. 

And yet, Otabek laughed, a hearty guffaw that had Yuri grinning in spite of himself from across the room as he spoke with his grandfather about the gardens. He ignored the knowing, amused look in the old man’s eye.

***

It was day four of the social visit and it was raining, the anticipated outing to the gardens foiled, and the guests of the Manor had retired to the library, talking amongst themselves and seeking some entertainment. Entertainment that was found in the form of Victor Nikiforov standing up and, with a mischievous twinkle in his eye, declaring, “Ambassador Altin, I’ve heard from your lovely sister that you are quite the accomplished musician. Would you do us the honor of livening up this dreary day and playing us a tune?”

Otabek chuckled slightly awkwardly, not having been expecting this, but stood up nonetheless. There was no way he could politely refuse, and the grand piano in the corner of the library had been beckoning to him throughout his entire stay.

“I think you’ll find yourself let down, my sister is far too kind to me.”

Victor laughed but opened the piano anyway, and Otabek was led to it by the siren’s song of the keys. “I have no fears to be let down,” Victor said amiably, “but if it made you more easy, I’m sure Yuri wouldn’t mind accompanying you.”

Yuri, at the mention of his name, emerged from conversation with the Crispinos, and directed a look at Victor. “What is this of accompaniment?”

“I’m sure you and Ambassador Altin would make marvelous partners-- after all, your arts are so complimentary.”

“You sing?” Otabek asked, anything but surprised that this man would possess another skill and excel at it.

“I dance,” Yuri replied, before turning back to address his cousin. “Victor, if I recall you once forayed into dance yourself, surely your memory is not _so_ short that you have forgotten that I am neither dressed for a performance, nor are my muscles warm enough to safely give one.”

“I’m sure that Ambassador Altin wouldn’t mind regaling us with a few choice pieces while you enact the necessary changes.” Victor’s eyes gleamed and Yuri’s sparkling, narrowed slightly.

“If you insist,” he said, and his voice was laced with venom. “Unsurprising that I have to entertain: if my memory serves, your dancer’s endeavors fell fall short of successful.” 

Otabek snorted and Yuri spared him a glance before eyeing Victor once again with thinly veiled reproach as the latter tried not to laugh. With a reserved smile to the room at large, whose occupants had been watching this exchange, Yuri left the library, presumably retiring to change and stretch.

Otabek, then realizing that all eyes were upon him, hastened to seat himself at the piano and play a quick ballade to warm up. By the time Yuri reappeared in the library, Otabek was at the tail end of Brahms Piano Concerto No. 2, and Yuri lingered at the back of the room to listen. 

As Otabek finished the piece, Yuri moved forward through the room, clapping with the rest of the party.

“Have you a specific piece to request?” Otabek asked Yuri as he joined him by the piano.

Yuri’s eyes gleamed. “Surprise me.” 

Amazed by this show of confidence, Otabek began a personal favorite piece of his, Allegro Apassianato, a piano adaptation, and tried to keep his eyes from straying to watch Yuri.

This, however, seemed impossible, as, the second Otabek struck the first key, a small smile appeared on Yuri’s face and he began to move. His skill was evident immediately, the way he rose to stand on the tips of his toes, only to move back to the flat of his dance shoe and bob up and down as he turned seemingly endlessly to the crashing speed of the piece locked one’s eyes.

Victor watched with a smug look on his face, Nikolai with a proud one, and Mila looking both endeared and exasperated.

“And his form is perfect, too,” she whispered to Sara Crispino, beside her. “Aunt Lilia would be proud, and as he’s improvising…” She shook her head, rolling her eyes as Yuri raised one leg behind him, slightly bent at the knee, high enough so his ankle reached behind his eyes, and balanced on the toe of his other foot while doing so! 

Otabek was playing entirely on autopilot, watching, transfixed as Yuri burned the floor around him, turning everything else to ash and soot, emerging like the firebird he was, the bright jewel in the smoking rubble.

Otabek only came up for air when he finally, inevitably, screwed up. Reaching for a G sharp, Otabek hit the key below it, and he winced as he ripped his gaze from Yuri’s movements to focus on the remainder of the piece.

The final note hung in the air and only then did Otabek allow his eyes to return to Yuri’s, now still, form. Applause around them reminded Otabek that he was not alone, and he rose, standing before the piano, a little behind Yuri, to bow.

Praise was flung at both Otabek and Yuri who smiled cordially and kept his responses short to the effusive comments. Otabek was a little bit relieved when no one commented on his screw up in the music, and, likely, no one had even realized, or was well acquainted-enough with the piece to notice.

Otabek was just about to offer his own splendid view of Yuri’s performance when the man in question turned to him, his smile scathing. It shouldn’t have been that Otabek’s heart beat a little faster whenever he encountered that smile, but it was.

“I think you’ll find,” Yuri said, gesturing to the piano, “that that note is supposed to be G sharp. Really, if I’m improvising en pointe and my technique is beyond reproach, one would think that playing a piece one already knows would be simplistic to the point of scorn in comparison.” Yuri stopped for a second, eyeing the amusement in Otabek’s face before adding, “But then, no one besides yourself is as well-versed with that piece as I, so it is unlikely that anyone should notice your blunder.”

“My blunder, as you call it, came from my inability to take my eyes off you.” Otabek smiled, “I wouldn’t mind if they did.”

Yuri blinked. Then, at a call from someone, hesitated slightly, giving Otabek his custom appraising look before moving away. It was small, but Otabek counted it a win.

***

It was at dinner that night that Otabek realized the biggest faux-pas of his career as ambassador of Almatia. He sat next to Mila and was engaged in conversation with her about the tariffs placed on furs and imported goods from Chian when it happened.

“I fear it will prove detrimental to the public and private economies of our two nations,” Otabek said, shaking his head, “I’m acquainted with Chian’s ambassador, Guang Hong Ji, but we have yet to reach an agreement. I’d be interested to hear how San Piter is handling the issue, your tariffs are higher than Almatia’s if my memory serves?”

“It does,” Mila said, “they’ve raised the taxes incrementally over the years but this one, big jump is proving difficult to manage.”

“It is at that,” Otabek said, “have you been in contact with Ambassador Ji at all? Leo, a guest here, is his mate-- I’m sure he’d be willing to get the two of you in contact.”

“I’m sorry?” Mila looked politely confused, eyebrows furrowing just a bit, “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”

“Well,” Otabek began, equally confused, “as ambassador of San Piter I’m sure you’ve been in contact with Chian in one way or another, but I think you’ll find that Ambassador Ji is far more agreeable.”

Mila’s eyes widened before, “Ambassador Altin,” she said, shaking her head slightly and smiling, “I’m afraid you’ve been speaking to the wrong person about these matters.”

“Sorry?” Otabek asked and Mila chuckled quietly,

“I am a cousin of the Plisetsky house,” Mila explained, “my mother was the king’s daughter, not my father-- that’s why my surname is Babicheva instead of Plisetskaya.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand, I’ve heard much about the ambassador of San Piter,” Otabek said, “you meet the description by all accounts.”

“Do I?” Mila laughed, “Well, I am honored. I’m afraid that your description is lacking, though, as the ambassador of San Piter is sitting quite down the table.”

Otabek followed her gaze. Yuri, looking radiant as always bedecked in lilac, was in conversation with Leo, apparently discussing furs if the snippets Otabek overheard served. He turned back to Mila, who nodded, looking amused.

“But,” Otabek said, “I was told that the ambassador was the first child of the Plisetsky house.”

“Of the Plisetsky _name,”_ Mila corrected. “I am a Babicheva, Yuri is the firstborn Plisetsky.”

Otabek was shocked-- _how_ was Yuri the ambassador? Mila, apparently following his train of thought explained,

“Yuri, on first impression, is often mistaken for an alpha due to his manner. And though his fellow diplomats are corrected very quickly, it would wound their pride to admit that they had been so bested at their job by an omega, and carry on the misinformation.” Otabek stared, “He didn’t see it fit to inform you?” Mila guessed, glancing down the table to her cousin, laughter dancing in her eyes.

“He did not,” Otabek said, shaking his head slightly as a small smile curved his lips. 

***

It was the final day of the social visit when Otabek decided to use his last hours of leisure to acquaint himself with the archery range of the edge of the Plisetsky property. He hadn’t had an opportunity to update his skills with the bow and arrow in some time, and the set he’d borrowed felt foreign in his hands. He ran his thumb over the smooth wood of the handle, rolling it back and forth in his palm. 

The sensation was nostalgic, and Otabek smiled faintly when he strung the bow and stretched the chord before letting the arrow fly. It landed several inches from the bullseye he’d been aiming at, but for his first time shooting in who knew how long, Otabek felt proud of himself for getting it even that close.

After half an hour of reacclimating himself with the precision of the bow, Otabek was pleased when his arrow hit the bullseye right on the nose. Moving forward to pull it from the target, Otabek started slightly when he turned, finding Yuri Plisetsky’s green eyes trained on him.

“Ambassador Altin,” Yuri said, moving forward onto the range.

“Ambassador Plisetsky,” Otabek replied, straight-faced, and Yuri smiled slightly, a new twinkle in his eye. “I’m afraid I’ve been very rude to you throughout the duration of the week,” Otabek continued, “I never addressed you by your title.”

Yuri looked him in the eye and Otabek got that familiar feeling of being examined. “I have no need for such formalities,” Yuri said after a moment of careful consideration, coming to stand at Otabek’s side before the target. “Much like yourself, _Beka.”_

Otabek just chuckled, “I would tell you to be a bit more informal, but it seems you’ve already adopted my sister’s pet name.”

“As I said,” Yuri looked at Otabek from the corner of his eye, “formalities bore me. May I?” He held out his hand abruptly for the bow and Otabek handed it over. 

Otabek was quiet while Yuri strung it and lined it up. Yuri shut one eye and let the arrow fly; it landed dead center of the target. Otabek just shook his head fondly. “Is there anything at which you don’t excel?” He asked as Yuri returned the bow.

Yuri smirked, again giving Otabek a glance from the corner of his eye. “I’m rubbish at the piano.”

Otabek laughed out loud, “I can’t dance to save my life.”

Yuri continued looking straight ahead as Otabek strung the bow. “What a pair we are,” he murmured as Otabek’s arrow landed a few stray inches to the left of Yuri’s. The bow was handed back without a word.

“Indeed,” Otabek said, looking on as Yuri let his arrow fly. “I look forward to working with you.”

Yuri’s arrow split his own bullseye in two. He turned to face Otabek, stepping closer to return the bow, the twinkle Otabek had grown to love dancing in his eye. “As do I.”

**Author's Note:**

> You have no idea how hard it was to not call Yuri 'Yuri' in the beginning. XD
> 
> Comments and kudos make my heart soar, so if you would like to play your part in defying gravity, I'd be thoroughly appreciative! ♥
> 
> (And anyone who got that reference deserves a kudos of their own! xD)


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